Well, we start right out, and it is amazing what has been done in my
absence. Ann--that is the little number's name--tells me about the
change in one thing and another; they are now taking vacations on Venus
and Mars, and it is merely a matter of a couple of hours to get to San
Francisco or London. Of course this is all very interesting, but I am
interested in what they are doing in the musical line. I tell Ann this.
"We are in luck," she says, "for there is a concert tonight up in
Albany and you will be able to hear all the finest music there."
"I do not wish to hear the long hairs play," I tell her. "Let us go
down along Fifty-Second Street and listen to a little barrelhouse. That
is my racket."
"There is no musical organization on Fifty-Second Street," Ann says.
"We do all our listening and looking at concerts like this one in
Albany, and it is the only sort of music we have."
By this time we are home, so I ask Ann if she would like to hear how
we played it back in the Twentieth Century. She replies that she
would, but not to let her father, the doc, know about it because he
is something of a bug on the modern music and considers the old style
quite degenerate.
I laugh at this. "What he means by the old style is probably something
I have never heard," I say. "You must remember that I am almost six
hundred years old, so my style is practically antique. Why, your father
did not even know that my horn was a musical instrument until I told
him my story, and it is indeed a shame that there are not a few old
Beiderbecke platters around so you all could hear what you've been
missing."
Well, I have not played the old slush pump since I escaped from the
fourth dimension, so I am careful when I pick it up, but after I have
tried a few runs I say I am all set. Ann is very curious, and she makes
me tell her how it works, as it seems they use instruments altogether
different in these concerts we are going to. I explain how the wind
goes around and all, and then I move into _I'm Getting Sentimental Over
You_. I am very mellow, and T. Dorsey couldn't have sounded any better
in the little concert I give. Ann is very overcome.
"It is beautiful," she says when I have finished. "Are there words to
it?"
I tell her there are, but that I do not know them, so she hums softly
as I take another chorus. She has a lovely voice, and I say that
tomorrow I will write down the words to some other numbers and let her
practice them with me.
When the doctor hears we are going to the concert that evening, he says
that he wishes to come along. We get to Albany in about five minutes,
so fast that I see nothing in the journey once we have left the New
York airport where the doc keeps his plane, and we enter the auditorium
in perfect time. As we go in, I am very surprised to see everyone
staring at me, since I have borrowed one of the doctor's suits for the
occasion and look just like anyone else. And then everyone stands and
begins cheering me until I am very embarrassed indeed. I look at Ann
and the doctor. They are both smiling.
"You know now that you have become a celebrity," whispers Ann. "We
didn't want to let you know right away, but the papers have been full
of your story."
So I smile and bow to the crowd, which keeps on clapping. It is very
pleasing.
Finally, however, the noise stops and the curtain raises. There on the
stage are about thirty or forty musicians, and behind them is a large
screen like in a moving picture house. Also there are a lot of electric
cords in sight, and I cannot figure what they are for until I notice
that each instrument is wired like an electric guitar.
When the conductor comes on, everybody claps a little more, and then
he turns to the orchestra. What I hear after that is something I never
expect to hear in my life. All those electric instruments begin to
vibrate, and on the screen behind them all sorts of shapes and colors
begin to flash and then disappear. This keeps up as long as the number
lasts.
"You are now seeing music as well as hearing it," the doctor tells me.
"I never saw any like that before," I say. "All the music I've ever
seen has been the regular dot variety; do the men play from those
flashes?"
"Why no," the doc smiles. "Those symbols that you see are the result
of the electric impulse as the musicians strike certain notes on their
instruments. They are never the same, and to me they are vastly
intriguing. Strictly, it was lousy."
"Oh," I say.
The following day Ann informs me that we are going on a picnic and asks
me will I please bring my trombone along and teach her a few songs.
About eleven o'clock we get in Ann's plane, and in no time we are down
in Virginia in a nice little spot by a small stream.
"I often come down here," Ann says. "It is one of the best places I
know."
There is something that seems awfully strange to me, and I finally
realize that it is the green grass of the meadow and the trees, after
the icky purple I have been used to for the past few months. I tell Ann
about this and about how beautiful the green looks, but I add that it
is still not as lovely as she is.
She says that is very nice, and then as I stand up from spreading the
picnic cloth, she is standing beside me, so I put my arms around her
and then I am kissing her and she is kissing me and it is very pleasant
indeed. I see that this is much better than any fourth dimension.
Finally we get around to eating the lunch Ann has brought, and I keep
saying how lovely she is, which I also mean. And she is saying I am
pretty fine too, and we pass some little time like this.
But after a while Ann says, "Mac, will you play for me now? I love to
hear you."
So I say I will if she will sing and I give her the words to _The St.
Louis Blues_, which I have written out. I hit it soft and easy for one
chorus to give her the melody, and then she takes the beat. Well, I
have not realized it before, but her voice is plenty schmalz and it is
a shame she is not living in my time, for she would be a cinch to panic
them anywhere.
After that she does _The Memphis Blues_ also, and she has me riding
beautifully to keep her up there. She is wonderful.
"You are the one who is wonderful," she says. "I have never heard music
like you can get out of that trombone. Play something else, darling,
won't you?" I slip into _If I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate_, and as
I play, Ann moves over beside me.
"Lovely," she whispers.
With that I am really carried away and I hear her humming softly as I
modulate into _Tea for Two_. I am giving it a real ride, and then I
feel it coming over me again. I am in a panic. I try to stop playing,
but I can't, and my body is vibrating something terrible.